


and a calm wind in the pine

by friendly_ficus



Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: Afterlife, Bittersweet, Gen, Not A Fix-It, mostly sweet but the premise itself is pretty bitter, some myth retellings sprinkled in for fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:13:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24292657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friendly_ficus/pseuds/friendly_ficus
Summary: “My third wish,” his patron whispers in his ear, “is for you to come home.”Lapin obeys without the usual grumbling. Well, mostly.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 65





	and a calm wind in the pine

**Author's Note:**

> lapin ‘thinks he’s neutral but is actually good’ cadbury and peppermint ‘greatest character to ever live’ preston, bon voyage. this fic is for me to say goodbye.

The summers in Candia are hot; sometimes hot enough for the bricks of Castle Candy to soften under the blazing sun, to get a little sticky under the feet of its residents. Night brings little relief—the rare cool breezes that come down from the mountains are subsumed by the heat that gets caught in the valleys of the country. For at least two months out of the year, usually longer, it is an absolutely miserable climate to live in.

_ At least it’s a dry heat,  _ Candians tell each other. One year Lapin caught himself saying it in four different conversations over the course of a single day.

He doesn’t think about it, when he’s lying on the cathedral floor, but there’s an element of that feeling. Under the pain, it’s a wry kind of acceptance. 

The end of his life, when it comes, is quick. While he’d rather have survived, it’s, well. At least it’s quick.

Lapin feels the weight of Peppermint Preston on his chest, cool and heavy.

_ My third wish,  _ his patron whispers in his ear, _ is for you to come home. _

And then, nothing.

\---

It takes Lapin a while to place the sound, as he comes back to awareness. At first all he makes out is the echo of the Sugar-Plum Fairy’s voice in his ears,  _ come home, come home, come home.  _ But underneath it there’s this low rumbling, this quiet, unfamiliar roar.

He realizes, then, that he’s breathing. He’s resting on something that definitely isn’t a stone floor, somewhere much warmer than he had been under the gaze of the Pontifex. It’s more comfortable than he’s been in years; the stiff knee he’d knocked against the carriage to Comida loosened and without pain, the thousand other small hurts he’s had a lifetime to get used to faded away. 

Curled up against his side, something wiggles a bit, starts to prod at his hand. Without opening his eyes, Lapin lifts it and starts scratching the little pig between his ears, right where he likes it best. Peppermint Preston gives an appreciative little  _ snort,  _ starts to nudge his head against Lapin’s side once he’s had his fill of scratches.

When he finally opens his eyes, Lapin realizes that he is on an entirely unfamiliar shore. That’s what the sound was, then; thirty feet away from himself and Preston, the surf is crashing against the sand. He flinches at the sight of it, pulls Preston into his arms and stands, unable to stop the instinctive  _ danger danger danger  _ blaring in his mind.

Behind him, someone lets out a gentle cough and says, “Hey, now. It can’t hurt you, friend.”

When Lapin turns, ignoring the part of his mind that’s yelling about  _ turning your back to the water, what are you doing,  _ there’s a custard tart standing there, casually taking him in.

“Isn’t water, anyway,” the tart continues. “You’re in the Dairy Islands, mate. Well, in a sense.”

“In a sense?” Lapin asks, his racing heart beginning to calm. Preston wiggles in his arms and he sets him down, lets the pig start snuffling at the sand.

“Ah, don’t mean to be indelicate about this, but. Are you aware that you’ve died?”

“Oh. That.” Preston nudges his foot, looking up for permission. When Lapin nods, he trots over to the tart and plops down next to him, gazing longingly.

He laughs a little, pets the striped back a few times.

“My name is Lapin,” Lapin offers, at a loss for what to say. 

“Bob Andy,” he says. “Don’t mean to pry, but you’re a little far from Candia.”

“I was in Comida when I died.” 

_ Come home,  _ he hears again, recalling the certainty of Keradin and his mace.  _ Come home.  _

Bob Andy hums, looking out towards the horizon. Lapin realizes that it’s sunset now, despite the fact that it’d been close to noon a few moments earlier. Sinking down over the waves, it looks magnificent. It’s the best sunset he’s ever seen.

“You just woke up here, didn’t you?” Bob Andy asks, but he doesn’t wait for an answer. “Come and sit by my fire for an evening; gather yourself a while. Your little friend here,” he nods at Preston, “can get acquainted with mine.”

They walk along the sand for an indeterminate amount of time; the sun is still setting, but it’s been setting for what feels like forever. When he looks behind them, there are no footprints—not even from Preston, who’s made it his new mission to stay within five feet of Lapin at all times. He’s grateful for it, honestly, in this disorienting place.

“Here we are, then,” Bob Andy says, as they come to a few large pieces of driftwood. “Take a seat and I’ll get the fire going.”

Between one blink and the next the sun is gone and the sky is painted with stars. There are the edges of familiar constellations—Lapin can see the tip of the Sugar Spear, pointing south—but most of them he only knows from books. 

There’s a fire crackling, flames soft lavender and blue. Bob Andy hums and sits across from him, having acquired a lyre somewhere. He plucks softly at the strings.

Out in the calm water, Lapin hears splashing as a pod of dairy dolphins come near to the shore.

“When I was young,” the tart begins, and it comes out with the rhythm of a story, “I left the Dairy Islands for a music contest in Uvano. On my way home, the sailors turned against me.”

Lapin waits, listens. What else is there to do?

“A dream came to me; in the morning when they attacked, I begged them to let me perform one more song. Then, I threw myself into the sea.”

Here he stops, plays a melody. A chorus of clicks and squeals rises up from the water to accompany him, and he smiles.

“The dolphins came to my aid and carried me to land, or so the story goes. Now I’m here. It’s a good existence,” he sets the lyre aside and drops the storytelling cadence. “Peaceful here, on the shore. I’ve seen people from all over wash up and be content with it.”

“What does this have to do with me?”

“I’m saying, if you want to stay here, you can. Nothing’s gonna hurt you; nothing can, anymore.” Bob Andy’s gaze is steady and it feels like an offer from a friend, not like some grand metaphysical choice. 

Lapin knows, without knowing how, that if he stays here he will be alright. That he could come to understand the strange sunsets, that he could grow to enjoy the ocean breeze that comes in. Still, when he looks up, the Sugar Spear points back to Candia. 

_ Come home,  _ he remembers.  _ My third wish is for you to come home. _

“I want to go home,” he says, and Bob Andy nods.

\---

“Time’s funny here,” Bob Andy says, helping get Lapin and Preston settled in a raft. “Distance too—not sure where you’ll wash up, friend.”

“One would expect this to all be figured out,” Lapin huffs. “If I had known death would be this much work, I would have...”

When he doesn’t continue, Preston jumps back up into his arms. He smells of the forests of Candia and of peppermint; Lapin thinks of the fear on Liam’s face, thinks of Theobald down in the cells, thinks,  _ boldness and caution alike. _

“I’d have done much the same, I suppose.”

Bob Andy laughs, makes sure the lead dolphin in the pod has a rope harnessed around it. Looking back up at the two of them, he smiles.

“They’ll carry you to  _ a  _ shore with all due speed. Fair winds, Lapin.” Then he whistles out a tune and they’re towed away.

When the land comes into view he knows it isn’t Candia—he’d tried not to expect it, despite the fact that they’d left the Dairy Islands going south. The sea gets deeper in color, shifts to something like wine, interrupted by bits of floating pulp and huge slices of citrus at irregular intervals. The dolphins play with some of it, snaring bits in their jaws and doing keep-away, leaping over other pieces. Eventually the surf grows too shallow for them to continue and Lapin unties the rope, taking up the oars and rowing the little boat to shore.

There’s not a long stretch of sand; instead, the ground beneath turns quickly to dark soil, twisted through with tree roots. Preston trots along ahead of him on what has quickly become a forest path, occasionally looking back to make sure he’s following. Lapin is having no trouble keeping up; he feels, dare he say it, limber. Energized.

They come upon a clearing and Lapin is aware of a humming in the air, a buzzing. Dotting the grass are small white huts, each about as big as Preston would be if there were two of him, standing on top of each other. Moving about the apiary is a tall woman in a simple white dress, carrying a large flat shovel. Her skin is rough and orange and her hair is piled in a bun atop her head, strands of white pith. When she sees him, she plants her feet and the buzzing of the bees suddenly increases in volume.

“I am Clementine Pavlova, who caught a god in chains to save my bees in life. You do not know what I will do if they are disturbed in death, stranger. Declare yourself,” she orders, eyes flashing.

Here Lapin catches another scent, beneath the sweetness of honey. Something sickly, decaying—fertilizer of some sort, he presumes, and he does not wish to join it.

He clears his throat and summons his most charismatic self. 

“Lapin Cadbury,” he says, bowing. “Former Primogen of the Bulbian Church, now deceased heretic.”

At his side, Preston snorts.

“Ah, and this is Peppermint Preston.”

Even in the face of Preston, whom Lapin has seen Liam use to get out of dozens of awkward social situations, the orange woman does not soften. The bees continue to buzz loudly, a few leaving their hives to flit through the air.

“And do you bring harm with you, Lapin Cadbury and Peppermint Preston? What have you come here seeking?” Her eyes narrow, grip on the shovel changing. Everything feels very tense; the air of the clearing is heavy with danger.

“We did not intend to come here at all,” Lapin says quickly, raising his hands in what could be surrender. At least, it would be surrender if he weren’t a twitch away from a spell. “It is but an unintentional stop on our journey home to Candia. If our presence is unwelcome, we’ll leave with all haste.”

At the mention of Candia, a gentle breeze rustles through the clearing. Cool and sweet, the air Lapin next inhales tastes of home. And it does something to the place, a scattering of tiny purple blossoms sprouting up in the grass that several bees bumble over to investigate. 

Pavlova looks at him with a different kind of calculation, the threat of violence leaving her posture. Then she sighs, spins the shovel and plants it edge-down in the ground at her side. 

“You—are you a follower of the Sweetening Path? You claim to be a heretic.” She sounds almost frustrated, as the buzzing of the bees fades into something more curious than angry.

Lapin nods. A bee perches briefly on the end of Preston’s snout, the pig going cross-eyed to look at it before it realizes he isn’t a flower and moves on.

“Fine. Fine, follow me.”

She leads him to a small table at the other side of the clearing, set at an angle that provides a view of the hives that ring the grass and flowers. It’s made of wood that was clearly either once part of a hive or left over from their construction, painted white. On it is a teapot and two cups, with a little pot of honey. 

Preston ambles about a short distance away, keeping Lapin in sight while he rolls around in the grass. In his wake Lapin sees them, the little purple flowers, sprouting up in the nonsensical pattern a pig makes when enjoying a frolic.

“I owe her a debt, your Sugar-Plum Fairy,” Pavlova says suddenly, and when Lapin looks back at her he sees she’s watching Preston as well. “She likes to remind me of it. Now, tea?”

“What kind of debt?” Lapin asks, accepting a cup and breathing in the sweetness of it. 

“When I was young,” Pavlova begins, frowning, “I kept bees near the border between Candia and Fructera. It was a peaceful life—of course there was usually war in those days, but it rarely came to my home. I didn’t raise a hand against another, until my bees died.”

She looks pained at the mention of it, pausing to drink from her cup. 

Preston sneezes, a purple cloud expelling from his snout that dissolves into sparkles, and Lapin feels a brief smile flit across his face. It’s strange, how easy it is to feel, how difficult it is to conceal it anymore. The pressures of life have... faded, it seems, along with a great many of his concerns.

“Anyway,” Pavlova continues. “No one could tell me why it happened, but all of them, all at once, sickened and died. I was near a shrine to your Fairy, so I went to her for advice. She laughed at me, of course. Said she wasn’t a beekeeper; but she knew someone who could teach me how to prevent it from happening again—Fructose, the harbor-god of Pulp Bay.”

“I haven’t encountered that name before,” Lapin offers.

“You wouldn’t,” she waves a hand as if to dismiss the spark of anger in her own eyes. “Not exactly compatible with the Bulb, was he. And Fructera was quick to forget him. He was already old, when I went to meet him, and he didn’t want to help me. So I  _ made  _ him.”

Lapin raises an eyebrow, the question unspoken.

“He could change his shape,” she explains, “he turned into things that couldn’t talk, at first, to get me to leave. But your Fairy had told me what to do and I seized him, held on through a dozen awful transformations until he got tired. And he taught me to slaughter animals in sacrifice and leave them to rot—when I returned to them, there was a new swarm of bees.”

“This is a very interesting story,” Lapin tells her, “but I don’t see how it translates to you not hitting me with your shovel, or whatever you planned to do first.”

“She helped me, I help you,” Pavlova says, drinking again. “That makes us even at last; debt  _ matters,  _ Lapin Cadbury, even in a place like this one. I still have my hives, my honey, my flowers. I refuse to be ungrateful.”

“Then I won’t be ungrateful by imposing any longer.” Lapin stands, leaves his teacup. Preston looks up from the flowers and trots over to his side. 

“Here,” Pavlova says, standing as well and passing him a small jar of honey. “For her tea, and let all debts be paid between us. I wish you both an easy journey home.”

\---

And so Lapin and Preston journey on, walking until the trees thin out and the path starts taking them through rolling hills of grass, rippling in time with the wind. And it is a path, now, not some instinct to half-rely on through the woods. There are stone markers every few hours, purple rock crystal speckled through them like gold in a quartz vein; wending through the hills is a trail of well-worn dirt, clearly walked by many before the two of them ever got here.

The time stretches out longer and longer, but Lapin doesn’t hunger, doesn’t tire. He does get bored at one point, segueing into an impromptu lecture on agriculture in Candia for Preston’s benefit alone. 

“Ground cover is important for the soil, especially with our tendency toward drought,” he’s saying, when he sees it. 

Off the trail, there’s someone sitting on a nearby hilltop. 

Lapin, disagreeable man that he is, steps off the path. Preston scuffs at the ground with one hoof a few times, clearly anxious to keep going, before letting out a resigned little  _ oink  _ and trotting along in his wake.

They reach her in a minute or two, the sunflower seed who sits back on her arms, staring at the sky. She doesn’t watch their approach, doesn’t react to their presence at all. 

Upon closer examination, Lapin sees a great crack on the back of her shell, the hint of something green and germinating. Preston snuffles around her hands, getting his attention; they, too, have cracked through; rooting her in place. 

“...Hello,” he tries, and winces at the dry sound of her eyes opening.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” she asks dreamily, her voice as hollow and raspy as wind forced through dry branches, as empty shells rustling together.

“Isn’t  _ what  _ beautiful.” 

He doesn’t mean to sound accusatory but he’s thrown for the first time since dying, deeply off-balance. He wishes—Lapin can’t say he wishes he’d stayed on the path, that’s not what he  _ does,  _ follow the steps laid out before him blindly. But he wishes he’d found something different, somehow. Something more like Bob Andy or Pavlova, clearly in control of their own domain, still moving through it.

“The  _ Bulb,”  _ she sighs, and he flinches.

“No.”

“I love it,” she continues, as if he hadn’t spoken at all. “I’m waiting for it to come for me.”

“It won’t,” he says. “It won’t come for you, it won’t  _ do  _ anything.”

“I have faith,” she tells him, “and I love it.”

“The Bulb will find nothing to love in you,” Lapin declares, reaching down to take Preston into his arms and beginning to back away from this unsettling encounter. “It is not a thing that loves.”

She sighs again, closes her eyes and tilts a little more toward the sky. If he listens Lapin can almost hear the roots cracking through her hands, can almost smell the plant unfurling from her head—

He turns back to the path with the speed of a young rabbit, and  _ runs. _

\---

Eventually, the path goes from dirt to, well, different dirt. Crushed needles from peppermint pine trees and small shards of jawbreaker and rock crystal, occasional tufts of green apple grass and violet drop blooms. 

Preston wiggles in his arms until Lapin puts him down, goes snuffling through the floor of what is quickly becoming a familiar forest, before letting out a triumphant  _ oink!  _ He returns with a seed held carefully in his mouth and puts it in Lapin’s hand. 

There’s a beat of silence, where Preston’s clearly waiting for Lapin to make it bloom. 

The chancellor squats down in front of the pig, heedless of whatever dust is getting on his robes. Preston stares at him with big, sad eyes, and Lapin scratches him gently between the ears.

“I didn’t mean for you to be here,” he says, as gently as he knows how. “I didn’t mean to be here either, if that makes it feel better.”

Preston exhales a big breath; a grieving sound.

“I know,” Lapin sighs, too. “I know it doesn’t.”

There’s a soft breeze that rustles the trees, curls of sparkling purple energy brushing past the both of them. 

“You were my favorite,” the Sugar-Plum Fairy says, unfolding from a patch of it. “And you’re  _ here.” _

“You did wish for it,” Lapin points out. “I’m a reluctant servant, not a poor one.”

She flits closer, reaches out a hand. The seed in Lapin’s hand blooms, grows so quickly that he loses his grip on it. Where it lands, flowers that he’s never seen sprout, petals shining like jewels in a myriad of colors.

“Not edible,” she murmurs, looking at Preston. “You miss your charge.”

He oinks.

“There’s no guarantee that Liam Wilhelmina of House Jawbreaker will come here, you know. Does that change your heart?”

He oinks.

“Of course.” She smiles, eyes curling up. “It is as much your forest as it is anyone’s, Peppermint Preston.”

Lapin stands to his full height, remembers the honey and presents her with the jar. The Sugar-Plum Fairy laughs, echoing oddly through the trees.

“You said you couldn’t fix my teacup,” she teases, “but you bring me things to fix my tea?”

“Yes, well,” is all Lapin says, as the familiar standing stones appear around them. It’s no earthquake—more like they’d been there all along, and just come into view. There is something strange, though; an archway, made by three of them. He’d remember seeing it, he’s sure.

It’s full of purple light, glowing softly. From within, Lapin can almost make out people talking, can smell one of the rare breezes of summer.

“You did so very well,” his patron tells him. “They survived that fight because of you—no one could have given more. My approval has never mattered much, but I  _ am  _ proud all the same.”

Preston trots over to him and rests for a moment, leaning against his leg for a head-scratch. Then he stands up, oinks once, and heads off into the forest on his own.

“It’s alright,” the Sugar-Plum Fairy says, and it feels like a last weight lifting from his shoulders. “There is no debt between us, Lapin Cadbury. Whatever you do next, it is your choice alone.”

The light in the archway ripples gently.

Lapin steps through.

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from ‘Hope of a Lifetime,’ a song from the Milk Carton Kids.  
> what an episode, what a season, what a “me remembering vaguely the myth of Clytie and extrapolating from there.” the myths i messed around with for this story are, by order of appearance: the story of the poet Arion (not the horse of the same name), Aristaeus, and Clytie. i’m not a scholar of mythology, i just was reading an old textbook on wednesday night when i couldn’t sleep post-episode; don’t look at this piece of fanfiction about a chocolate bunny as a good source. it does mean that i don’t know how i feel about the originality of the ideas in here, but it felt good to work on this this week and i thought i’d share it. Hope you’re all holding together as well as can be expected.  
> leave a comment and let me know what you think—i know the subject matter of this fic is fairly somber, but i hope it was still a satisfying read. my effort to raise a glass and remember lapin.


End file.
